CHAPTER6
Johnathan and Frances set out at first light. The sky had darkened with heavy clouds by the time they trotted beyond the last marker of the previous village. Frances’s heart beat unevenly beneath her cloak, each hoofbeat a reminder of how close they were to the border—and how thin the veil of safety truly was. Her thoughts raced with images of Cranford and his men, of being dragged back to London in disgrace. The scent of damp earth and the hush of impending rain filled the air. The path narrowed through a dense stretch of trees, and the temperature dropped as wind blew through the branches. The horses moved at a steady clip, their breaths fogging the chilly air.
She shifted her hands on the reins, casting a quick glance toward Johnathan. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, shoulders tight.
She did not see the danger yet, but she felt it—gathering like a storm just beyond the hill. “Do you think they are still pursuing us?” she asked, her voice barely above the wind.
Johnathan nodded, his eyes scanning the woods. “If they are smart, they are nearby.”
Frances felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She had barely slept the night before, her dreams haunted by faceless pursuers and the memory of Cranford’s cold, furious gaze at the altar. Her hands trembled despite her resolve.
As the dense trees thinned, the trail opened to a rocky outcrop, revealing a stream and a fork in the road ahead. Johnathan pulled up, dismounting and crouching to study the tracks in the dirt.
Frances followed suit, crouching beside him. “What is it?” she asked, her voice taut with apprehension. Her eyes scanned the surrounding woods as her thoughts raced—was this the moment they would be caught? The whisper of danger in the air suddenly felt tangible, pressing cold fingers to the back of her neck.
“Three sets of hoof prints heading west,” he murmured. “Fresh. Less than an hour ahead of us.”
“Cranford and his men?”
“Possibly. Or perhaps other travelers. Either way, we must remain alert.”
Frances felt her heart stutter. “Then let us proceed east.”
Johnathan nodded. “We will follow the ridge. Harder terrain, but safer.”
They remounted and turned toward the eastern road, more of a path truly, which sloped sharply uphill along brush and loose stones. The horses labored, and they rode in silence again, the air between them tense with unspoken thoughts.
As the light began to fade, a sudden crack echoed through the trees.
A gunshot.
Frances flinched, her horse rearing slightly as Johnathan surged forward, placing himself between her and the tree line.
“Go!” he shouted, drawing his pistol from beneath his coat.
Another shot rang out, striking the earth just inches from his boot.
Frances kicked her horse forward, heart pounding. Johnathan rode beside her, scanning their surroundings.
A group of riders emerged from the woods, masked and armed, their horses thundering down the slope.
“They are trying to cut us off!” Johnathan yelled. “This way!”
They veered right, toward a narrow pass between two hills. Frances ducked low as another bullet whistled past her ear. Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to hold steady.
She heard Johnathan fire in return, the crack of his pistol sharp against the chaos. One of the attackers fell back, his horse stumbling. The others surged forward.
They reached the pass and galloped through, the trail barely wide enough for two riders. Frances heard shouting behind them, but did not dare look back.
Then, without warning, her horse’s hoof struck a loose stone. It slipped.
Frances scrambled for purchase as she was thrown from the saddle, hitting the ground hard.
Pain exploded through her shoulder and side. She tried to rise, dazed, but the world spun.
“Frances!”
Johnathan dismounted, dropping to his knees beside her, heart thundering in his chest. His breath caught at the sight of her crumpled form, his mind reeling with the worst possible outcomes. He reached out with trembling hands, one already stained with dirt and sweat, and cupped her face gently. “Frances,” he said again, the panic in his voice barely contained. The world around him—thundering hooves, the crack of branches, the hiss of wind—faded into a muffled hum. In that moment, she was all he saw. He touched her face, eyes wild. “Where are you hurt?”
